


Private Party

by sister_coyote



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Backstory, M/M, OrgXIII, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-27
Updated: 2006-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:25:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_coyote/pseuds/sister_coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a private party.  They know all the traditions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Party

The Christmas ball at the Castle was—as always—fitting of the title 'event of the season.' Everyone who was anyone (and quite a few others besides) whirled on the tessellated-marble dance floor or ate dainties from china plates. Drinks (even the sparkling cider for those who did not prefer champagne) glittered in flawless crystal flutes. And in attendance, as every year, were Ansem's apprentices. Braig, as always, did so under duress.

His required dance out of the way (somebody's maiden aunt, a nice enough person but too heavily steeped in rose perfume), Braig hung back at the edges of the room, sipping champagne more because it was there than because he liked it and watching the crowd mingle. Dilan was out there, somewhere, doing his duty—last Braig had seen, he'd been in the iron grip of a formidable old lady who'd smelled powerfully of rose perfume and who had planted one hand tight as a claw on his forearm. Braig caught sight of Xehanort—who always looked fine at things like this, not because he fit in but because he stuck out _everywhere_—bent almost in half to dance with the pint-sized princess. The top of Kairi's head barely passed his knees, and after an awkward moment, Xehanort scooped her up light as a leaf to spin her around the dance floor, to her delighted laughter.

He knew the song and dance. It was expected, blah blah, they always needed a few people who were willing to roust out the wallflowers for a few turns of the dance floor, blah blah, theirs was a respected position, blah blah, noblesse oblige et cetera ad nauseum.

It bored Braig to tears.

(He'd tried to cajole Cid to come keep him company. Cid's response had been hysterical laughter.)

Braig didn't turn around when Dilan stepped up behind him. "You finally free?"

"Mmm," Dilan agreed.

"Didn't think she was ever gonna let go of you."

"Neither did I," Dilan rumbled, with such strained patience that Braig laughed.

"You shoulda gone your round with Ellone," Braig went on. "She was perfectly pleasant, once she stopped apologizing for stepping on my foot."

"I'm sure we can't all be as clever as you," Dilan said, and this time Braig could hear the smile in his voice.

"Don't see why not," he said.

"You're quite impossible."

"Probably. Let's get out of here, yeah?"

"Right behind you."

* * *

They both had rooms at the castle. Beautiful, well-appointed rooms, naturally, although a bit drafty. Those rooms were useful when research or grading or long technical discussions kept them in the labs late; it was better to stumble up half a flight of stairs into bed than to make your way all the way back to the Garden. But they also kept an apartment in town, for privacy, where they could leave the coffee pot to molder without comment, and could make as much noise as they wanted without fear of traumatizing a co-worker in the next room over.

The apartment's floor was bare pine and not marble, and the food—three boxes of macaroni, a questionable remnant of a gallon of milk, and a sad-looking head of broccoli—was more likely to be eaten off of paper plates than china.

The drink selection wasn't going to be drunk at all, if you believed Dilan. When Braig broke out the eggnog, Dilan shook his head.

"No."

"You know you like it."

"It's _vile_. The real stuff is bad enough, but that kind that comes in a paper carton—"

Braig examined a coffee mug, decided it was clean _enough_, and sloshed in some eggnog. And then a more-than-healthy shot of spiced rum. "Every single year, you say the same thing. And yet you always wind up drinking it." He held the resulting concoction out to Dilan.

Dilan eyed it. "You're a terrible influence."

"Rum makes everything better," Braig said.

"True enough," said Dilan, and took the mug.

It wasn't even that Braig liked rum-and-eggnog all that much, but by now watching Dilan's expression shift from distaste to acceptance to mellow pleasure was a tradition. And he definitely liked the part where Dilan leaned over, tasting of rum, and kissed him. Dilan kissed deep and hot, but not slow—he never wasted much time.

"Merry Christmas to you too," Braig said when they came up for air. Dilan cut him off with another kiss.

They stumbled for bed. Braig was dimly aware of his shoulder banging against the doorframe, and Dilan stepped on a shoe and nearly fell over, but they made it in one piece, trailing discarded clothing on the way. Dilan paused to tug a boot off, which was irresistible temptation to Braig. Dilan foiled Braig's attempt to bowl him over, though, and Braig found himself on his back—but not struggling, because Dilan's thigh rubbed slow and steady against him, and that was exactly the right way to stop all argument.

They stripped one another the rest of the way with considerably less haste. In the process, they discovered, to Dilan's ausement, that a whole spill of snowflake-shaped confetti and silver glitter had lodged itself in Braig's left boot. The glittering bits of paper clung to the rumpled bedclothes and stuck to their sweaty skin. ("We're going to be sparkly for days," Braig mourned. "My students'll never let me live it down.")

And oh, god, it was nice, the familiarity—he knew that there would be lube in the top drawer of the nightstand, he knew that Dilan would catch his breath on a little sob when Braig slid a hand along his erection, he knew that Dilan would take the lube from him and slick him up with practiced efficiency.

. . . and there was a lot going for novelty, of course, but there was also something to be said for this: familiarity, knowing exactly how to move, knowing how to arch so that Dilan could slide in easily, knowing how to find the pace, how to move, how to shift the angle so that he stroked just right. He watched the flex of muscles in Dilan's arms and chest, and in his own body, his legs taut—and knew as he damn toes actually curled that that would make Dilan laugh, but that it would also make Dilan wrap a hand around his cock and stroke until he swore, "Fuck—"

"Yes, exactly," Dilan said.

"That is the most cliche—" Braig began, but Dilan won that round, ultimately, by destroying Braig's ability to speak. And Braig decided he was okay with that, really, because with no effort and in almost no time he was coming, and then so was Dilan. Perfect timing.

Some time later, Dilan began to chuckle.

"Hnnnn?" Braig asked, which was all his poor mind could manage.

"You have a snowflake stuck to your cheek," Dilan said.

Braig felt for it with his fingertips, lifted the confetti off to study it. "So I do," he said, and flicked it away—or tried to. It lodged itself in his hair.

Dilan lifted it off, the snowflake weirdly delicate between his broad fingers. He held it up to the light, dreamlike. "Merry Christmas," he said.


End file.
